Oh Dear, Why Do I Torture Myself So?
Must be me, not you
You poor thing, unable to see me, or at least beyond the window open to you.
Unable to hear me, my words are a riddle to you, it seems.
My value escapes you, so many other distractions are more deserving.
Yes, you are right, it is me not you, for I will not fight for your attention.
I will not bow down to you or conform to the whim of the moment.
I will not act, unless upon thespians stage.
I am as I am, not without fault but with clarity of truth at my side.
I do not consider friendship an acquisition of all I seek in the material world.
A friend is just that, there will be no payment, only endless support.
You claim my complexity in being blind to my simplicity.
Dislike my rigidity in absorbing moral flexibility.
See objectivity as a hurdle in reap of entirety.
How dare I, your eyes protest, in life contest.
You can not teach me that is how you get ahead.
Living within my head, and souls truth, I’d rather be dead.
Then the copy you’ve become, in place of the one I once knew.
Sadly it’s true, I can no longer reach you, and so once more you are correct.
I do regret, it is me not you.
You poor thing, my deepest pity.
You have lost me in me finding my way.
To be me not you in the light of the day.